Never Again
by KnightOfNevermore
Summary: His children are of every religion and of every kind: gypsy, homosexual, and Jew. He will not sit by and watch as his children are killed like animals.  He will not stand for this. Germany will have his revenge. Anti-Holocaust!/Anti-Hitler!Germany.
1. A Promise by the Dying rays

**A/N:** I wrote this... well.. because I am rather sick of seeing SS!Germany, and someone has to take note of the fact that between 170,000 and 200,000 German Jews, 15,000 German Gypsies, and between 5,000 and 15,000 German homosexuals were killed in the Holocaust, which would obviously have an effect on Germany. I wanted to take Germany's past wars and his life into account, and how that would change his perspective on WWII and the Holocaust. I found that due to his knowledge and experiences, I highly doubt that he would have been Hitler's greatest fan. So this is the story of the untold Germany, of the part of him that is the German Jews, forever may their souls rest in peace.

**Written While Listening To:** Davy Jones by Hans Zimmer (I highly suggest you listen to this while you read, it sets the tone of the story.)

* * *

The bodies of millions, skeletons and skin, are the only things he sees.

The rotting flesh of thousands, blood and disease, are the only things he smells.

The cries of hundreds, wailing for the people behind numbers, are the only things he hears.

The breath of few, frail but alive, is the only thing he can think of.

They are his people.

His children.

He will not stand for this.

He will not sit and watch as his children, _seine Lieblinge_, are killed like animals.

He will not stand for this.

In his Führer's deluded mind only the Nazi's are German.

Germany is not the Führer.

His children are of every religion and of every kind: gypsy, homosexual, and Jew.

Do not assume he will stand for the slaughter of his children.

Germany will have his revenge.

And he will laugh as the mighty Führer dies, and all that he stands for all with him.

Germany will not rest until every last Nazi is wiped from the face of the earth.

_Wer sind sie? _

Who are they, to ruin his country? To corrupt his people? To brainwash his children? To murder them?

They are dead men; and they shall never rise again.

Germany will never let them.

He will never allow his people to be slaughter like pigs, brainwashed like mindless slaves, beaten and bruised by foreign control, he will never allow them to be ashamed of their heritage, and will never let them forget what atrocities their forefathers committed.

Never again will a gypsy woman be murder for her ways, a gay man experimented upon and tortured for his love, Jewish children burned because they were taught to love their god and the way of their people.

The Rhine bleeds for Germany. He swears by its flow, the Nazi Party will never rise again.

_Versuchen Sie nicht ewig zu leben. Sie werden keinen Erfolg haben._

_Don't try to live forever. You will not succeed._

_

* * *

_

**A/N2:** Meh, it's more of a drabble than a one-shot, no? I took a bit off a risk here, going out of my comfort zone. This is my first Hetalia piece, and quite a dark one at that. Some of you may have recognized the references in this, and the origins of my inspiration of it. The "Never Again," theme is derived from the last line of Europa by Globus, an epic song about Europe, and the last line has many meanings, one of which I apply to the Nazi powers. The last line is from a rather famous Hetalia picture, of Prussia and Germany in a graveyard of white crosses, and the title on it is George Bernard Shaw's renowned quote. The Rhine is the longest river in Germany, and I am going with the idea of that the personified nation's blood is that of their greatest body of water, for instance, America and the Mississippi. By the way, I am terribly sorry if my German lines are incorrect, I used an online translator, and I apologize for my lack of ability in that area. If anyone has a correct translation, if mine is wrong, then please tell me as so I can correct it. Please, share your thoughts and comments through reviews, which I appreciate greatly and desire. So please, my readers, review, and let me know your thoughts on my version of Germany.


	2. The Reign of Twilight Begins

_As dark as the hour before dawn._

_As consuming as bitter burning fire._

_As obliterating as the Black Plague's dance across Europe._

_As black as his Fuehrer's insanity twisted soul._

Germany trailed his fingers through the spilled ink; a mangled and twisted fountain pen lay ruptured on the side of his desk, black blood oozing from its gaping wound.

Twisting twirling patterns decorated his desk, staining the oak black. He drew clouds, flowers and a hill. Scenes long forgotten, he stares at them, pondering their meaning as he swipes the ink across the whole mess, destroying the near formed memory from ever restoring.

He stared at his hands, dark from ink, black from the spill, as good a mask as he could make.

But nothing could cover the blood.

The red staining and caressing his hands, forever signing its spidery print across his palms and down his wrists.

He could not escape the red.

The glass shards had ripped and tarred at his skin.

Cuts riddled his palms, the signature of the infamous Kristallnacht.

The Night of Broken Glass.

_That Night, 1668 houses of God had been ransacked and defiled, their holy peace shattered and destroyed._

_That Night, 267 of the sanctuaries burned to ashes; smoking twisting and twirling in the black, black sky._

_That Night, a sign of what was to come and what would be, was written in blood on sacred ground._

_That Night, 30000 men were taken; ripped away from their families and all that they knew._

_That Night, 91 of his children were slaughtered._

_That Night, Germany scavenged through shattered glass; searching, searching, searching…_

_That Night, Germany earned 91 scars on his hands, 91 slits of red, 91 reminders of the fate of his people._

_That Night, glass fell as rain and stung as needles._

_That Night, dreams shattered and hopes scattered._

_That Night, the fragile façade of peace was destroyed and the reign of nightmares began._

That Night, Germany's so delicately placed together pieces of ignorance holding his denial of Hitler's sociopathic intentions steadfast, shattered into a million slices of glass, raining down from the accursed heavens.

That Night, among the shards of the Synagogues and the bodies of his people, Germany began his secret war against all that his Fuhrer held true.

* * *

**A/N:** And so it begins. I think. I hope. I will. Maybe. Possibly. If I get enough reviews. ;D Hahaha. Okay, so I wasn't planning on doing this, but I have so here it is. I didn't want to post it orginally, becuase it feels as if it is a prologue after a prologue. So let me give a brief attempt at an explanation:

The first chapter is a prologue, and is after the war, so this is all flashback. This is a prolouge in a matter of speaking for, if I continue, the rest of the story.

So that's the deal folks. I...uh... nearly started crying during writing this and I tried to convey that feeling of despair and horror.

My beta believed in my success, so I hope you do too. Speaking of my beta, I LOVE YOU AWESOMENESS INCARNATE! If you like Naruto stories give her a one over, she lives up to her name!

I tried for that poetic feel again, I hope I was able to achieve it. The reference to the hill is my belief in the HRE theory kicking in, but if you don't like it, make it whatever you want it to be. Meh, my formatting was destroyed by FFnet D: I hope you still liked it...

A quick note on the title, The Reign of Twilight Begins, it references the famous "Darkest before Dawn" proverb thing, so this is the descent into night, insinuating that there is an awfully long way to go, even before the darkest hour. Haha, I get so into my titles...

So, Please review to let me know what you think of this piece, and whether it lived up to the intensity of the first one. Thank you for reading and please review, Kay Night.


	3. Rigel and Betelgeuse

**A/N:** Chapter 3. Enjoy.

**Warning:** Heavy Holocaust references and situations. Anti!Hitler and Anti!Nazi Germany. Don't like, don't read. I, in no way, shape or form mean to offend anyone at all, so please do not take this personally or be offended by it.

**Written To: **5. Marhz by Megaherz. Found on Youtube at (add ending): /watch?v=Z-ukicrxjZU&feature=related

* * *

"Dlaczego? Dlaczego my? Co mamy na to wszystko zasłużyłam? Boże, o Boże, nie mogę oddychać! Proszę, proszę, zrobię wszystko, tylko nie, nie rań moje dzieci! Moje dzieci, moje dzieci!"

A mother screams for her children. Her children, her babies, _her darlings_, her only link left to sanity. A smash to the jaw with butt of a gun, a bloody lip and shattered teeth was a small price to pay.

"Steh auf! Steh auf! Judensau! Verschieben!"

Hardened eyes. Twisted smirks. Guttural shouts of orders, hands bloodied and consciences untainted.

"Proszę, nie moje dziecko, ale nic, moje dziecko, proszę, proszę, patrzcie, patrzcie, ona nie jest Żydem! Ona jest, nie jes-!"

A body crumples to the ground, blood dripping from a hole in the forehead, a babe screaming under its dead mothers weight, screaming for relief, screaming for air. The screams stop.

"Bewegen Sie, jüdische Bastarde!"

Insults as sharp as knife and just as quick. Stripping them down, cutting away at their humanity until there was nothing left but pure, primal instinct, devoid of emotion.

"Du dumme Schlampe, wagen, wie Sie wieder mit einem Mann reden!"

Hysterical sobs and harsh hands. The crying of a woman met by groping of hands and leers of the Nazi dogs, howling and barking at the fresh prey for their insatiable hunger. Her innocence was lost among corpses and their killers.

"Synu! Syna! Stop, proszę zatrzymać, mój chłopcze!"

Pride crushed and fed upon, a father's inability to aid his son is the final blow to his ailing heart, his twitching body writing on the blood soaked ground.

"Er sah meine im die Augen, verdammt du Bastard! Du Dreck!"

Hard boot heels meet scarlet faces and bruised heads; open backs slashed by cracking whips and the lick of fire from cigarette ends.

"Matko, Matko, Matko!"

A lost child screams for their only known protector, searching desperately in the panicked crowd for the familiar face, and finds it finally. Ragged, bloodied and torn, there is no peace in death. Crushed to death by the stampede of people with fear reeking from their ragged breath.

"Härtere! Bringen dass Schweine eine Lektion!"

Taunts and shouts of encouragement egg the man on again and again, harder, faster, stronger. It is no fight if the only knife lies in the grip of the standing, the grasp of the other crushing the words of the holy.

"Proszę ... Boże ... Proszę ... Gdzie jesteś Boże, gdzie jesteś, gdy dzieci są ubijane? Gdzie jesteś? Gdzie jesteś? Boże!"

One by one the Jews were herded into their new home, a prison of the cursed and the condemned.

The Warsaw ghetto had been formed, 400,000 people encased in its walls.

Trapped like mice with nowhere to run, their fates had been decided and the die had been cast.

Poland had fallen.

Screaming in the dialect of his ancients, cursing Marzanna and her wrath upon Germany and all of his people.

Blood and saliva flew from his mouth with his incessant shouts; screeching and kicking, his inhuman strengthen throwing his captors into the walls as new ones flooded in to gain control of the raging monster.

His shouts soon quelled to hysterical sobs, pain wracking his body and the open wounds slashed upon his skin from the September Campaign oozed and filled the room with the scent of the winding Vistula.

Stony and silent his captor stood, watching the nation calm into pure horror of the atrocities committed onto his people.

The demon speaks.

"Polen. Dieses Gefühl ... Sieg. Fühlst du es, Deutschland?"

He inhales deeply, inhaling the reek of the river, tarnished by blood and gunpowder swirling in its depths. He turns to his silent companion, dwarfed by his height and power. The picture is ironic, a man so small, so weak, so pathetic compared to his companion, but the pure utter _dominance_ over him is horrifyingly comical.

"Ja, mein Führer," Germany replies, and he does feel it. He feels victory. He feels its suffocating depths and its immeasurable cost, the sickening flood of Poland's people entering his consciousness. A wave of nausea hits his body and a flood of screams and pure terror rips through his mind. Visions of Poland's people, _his people_, being shot in masses by the Einsatzgruppen, all in his name, all in his claim for glory.

He watches in silence as the fallen nation is dragged away, no longer screaming, no longer crying, he is silent.

Silence coating the room and suffocating Germany until he struggles to breath, to gasp, to do anything to look away from Poland's gaze.

Cursing him, damning his, sentencing him to eternal pain without a single word.

Terror ripped through him like a knife, the pure hatred in Poland's eyes wounding him like a blade.

He darts from the room with his Führer's dismissal, running blindly through the corridors of the Third Reich's Central Command, ignoring the stares, the looks, the words, the calls, the whispers.

His stomach gives way just as he keels over the toilet, thoroughly emptying his stomach of his lunch, the hot salvia pooling from his lips, the acrid odor washing over him as he retched and gagged. He coughs and sputters; letting his body's basic reactions take over.

He doesn't know how long he lies there, shaking and crying as he rids his body of the boiling poison rotting his stomach.

He lies there gasping for breath, tears streaming down his cheek, when the bathroom's door opens again, and the unforgettable click of polished boot heels meets his ears, and a wave of dread passes through his body; the thought of being seen in such a miserable state. He closes his eyes, but the tears still run down his flushed cheeks, his mouth still leaking saliva down his chin when the stall door opens.

His breath hitches as a gloved hand caresses his cheek, wiping away his tears with the gentlest of touches. A handkerchief meets his lips and the rotted mess around them is quickly cleaned away.

Pressed to his forehead, a soft pair of lips, warm and reassuring. Only then does Germany open his red-rimmed eyes, sapphire-blue meets ruby-red.

Preußen.

"Bruder…" Germany whimpers softly, reaching a shaking hand up towards the man crouching before him. Prussia quickly grasping the quivering hand in his own, and whispers meaningless reassuring words in his ear. Pulling the shaking Germany to his chest, Prussia makes small comforting circles across his brothers back with his other hand, the tainted handkerchief lying forgotten on the cold tile floor.

"Di-did it w-w-work, bruder?" Germany is able to choke out," Ho-ow ma-"

"Shush, it's alright, bruder, calm down, calm down," Prussia mummers quietly in his ear, never stopping his comforting ministrations.

"It worked, it all worked. Just like you said it would," he whispers triumphantly in his brothers ear, words laced with glee and pride. He hugs his brother closer, his iron grip calming and stopping the incessant shudders wracking Germany's body.

Germany's eyes closed softly and a smile, twisting and curling, a flame spreading across paper, caressed his lips; joyous and shocked, his eyes flash open and he laughs wildly. His brother smirked in return, giving his own deep quiet chuckle.

Eyes wide and wild Germany pressed his forehead to his brother's, thousands of questions hanging on the tip of his tongue, but only one made it past his grinning lips.

"How many bruder, how many?"

"One thousand five hundred," Gilbert Beilschmidt cackled, grinning wickedly at his Ludwig, "One thousand five hundred Jewish children aboard a train, not bound for the Ghetto or for the Camps, but for Schweiz, bruder, for freedom!"

* * *

**A/N2:** Thank you for reading Chapter 3 of Never Again.

Translations and Other Notes:

_Polish _and German

**1.**_"Dlaczego? Dlaczego my? Co mamy na to wszystko zasłużyłam? Boże, o Boże,nie mogę oddychać! Proszę, proszę, zrobię wszystko, tylko nie, nie rań moje dzieci!Moje dzieci, moje dzieci ! "_

"Why? Why us? What have we done to deserve this? God, oh God, I can't breath! Please, please, I'll do anything, just do not, do not hurt my babies! My children, my children!"

**2.**"Steh auf! Steh auf! Judensau! Verschieben!"

"Get up! Get up! Jewish swine! Move!"

**3.**"_Proszę, nie moje dziecko, ale nic, moje dziecko, proszę, proszę, patrzcie, patrzcie, ona nie jest Żydem! Ona jest, nie jest-!"_

"Please, not my baby, anything but, my baby, please, please, look, look, she is not a Jew! She is, is not a-"

**4.**"Bewegen Sie, jüdische Bastarde!"

"Keep moving, jewish bastards!"

**5.**"Du dumme Schlampe, wagen, wie Sie wieder mit einem Mann reden!"

"You stupid bitch, how dare you talk back to a man!"

**6.**"_Synu! Syna! Stop, proszę zatrzymać, mój chłopcze!"_

"Son! Son! Stop, please stop, my little boy!"

**7.**"Er sah meine im die Augen, verdammt du Bastard! Du Dreck!"

"He looked my in the eye, you fucking bastard! You filth!"

**8.**_"Matko, Matko, Matko!"_

"Mother! Mother! Mother!"

**9.**"Härtere! Bringen dass Schweine eine Lektion!"

"Harder! Teach that pig a lesson!"

**10.**_"Proszę ... Boże ... Proszę ... Gdzie jesteś Boże, gdzie jesteś, gdy dzieci są zabijane? Gdzie jesteś? Gdzie jesteś? Boże! "_

"Please... God... Please... Where are you God, where are you when your children are slaughtered? Where are you? Where are you? God!"

**10.** Marzanna: Polish Pagan god of the dead

**11. **The September Campaign: The German plan of the Poland invasion.

**12.** Vistula: The longest river in Poland.

**13.** Einsatzgruppen: The SS execution squads.

**14.**"Polen. Dieses Gefühl ... Sieg. Fühlst du es, Deutschland?"

"Poland. This feeling ... Victory. Do you feel it, Germany? "

**15.** Rigel and Betelgeuse (The Title): Two stars in Orion's belt that are said to come out first at night in the fall/winter.

Ramblings:

Well then! Thank you, so, so, so much for reading, and I really do hope that you find this chapter to have lived up to its predecessors. As per usual, this came out of nowhere and completely side-tracked me from writing my essay for English, on a book I haven't read yet with a topic question I don't understand. Joy. So, three new characters, the most hated man in history, tortured!Poland and my personal favorite, Prussia. I hope I did them justice, no matter how short their appearances were. Thanks yet again to my fabulous Beta, Awesomeness Incarnate and her splendid metaphor, comparing the power of my writing to a rather painful method of... murder? I still don't know if that was a compliment... And for dealing with my consistent and persistent utter failure at tenses. Again, if anyone has better translations for the Polish and German lines used, please let me know because online translator are usually terrible and I would hate to offend anyone. Anyways, please, please, do review, they really do mean a lot to me and is the reason why I continue writing my odd little stories. So thank you so much for reading and (hopefully!) reviewing, have a good one! ~Kay Night


	4. Aquila Alis Non

**A/N:** Chapter 4 of the idea that everyone had and everyone wanted, that I wanted so badly that I just decided to write it myself. Enjoy as you will.

**Warning:** Heavy Holocaust references and situations. Anti!Hitler and Anti!Nazi Germany. Don't like, don't read. I, in no way, shape or form mean to offend anyone at all, so please do not take this personally or be offended by it.

* * *

Helfen, Wehren, Heilen.

Help. Defend. Heal.

That is what he had been taught, what he had thrived on.

His bruder had raised him right.

But what can you do when you can no longer help them?

Defend them?

Heal them?

xxx

"Aus Barmherzigkeit töten."

xxx

There is a list, typed neatly and orderly by some unnamed secretary on an efficient new model typewriter because the Nazis used the best and only the best, filled with names.

They are young and they are old. They are the babes that don't cry right away, the children who don't speak just right. They are the infected women and the dying men who wish to spend their end of days among family and friends, breathing the air of the world.

Not their own ashes as they go up in smoke.

xxx

"That is what they are calling it now, Deutschland? Euthanasia."

"Didn't you know bruder? Don't you understand? They cannot be helped. Be saved. They are the life unworthy of living. That's what he told me, bruder."

xxx

He had watched as his boss penned his signature out. He watched every curl and every line, he knew what it meant, he knew what it did, and there was nothing he could do to stop the twirling lines and curving letters."...the authority of certain physicians to be designated by name in such manner that persons who, according to human judgment, are incurable can, upon a most careful diagnosis of their condition of sickness, be accorded a mercy death."

Incurable? How can they be incurable? How could his leader not see it? See the little boy's beautiful face? Arms and legs do not matter when there are eyes to be rapt by, a mouth to feed, and a heart to appease. When there are feelings to love and innocence to be kept.

He was a beautiful little boy, Gerhard Kretschmar. He was five months and five days old; he was such a beautiful little baby.

Even as a corpse.

xxx

Code Aktion T 4 was the beginning. 'Life unworthy of life does not deserve to exist,' they were told. Angels of Death were born from doctors and midwives meant to be saving the very lives they condemned.

xxx

"Mein Gott. Meine Kinder. Meine schönen, my beautiful, beautiful children. Can you not see brother? How they smile at me? Can they not feel? Can they not tell what is going to happen?Die kleinen Kinder, die es nicht besser wissen, oh Gott."

"Gott…"

"Gott? Bruder, there is no God here."

"Was meinst du Deutschland? What of our beloved Führer? He decides who lives, who dies- is he not our God?"

xxx

Red is the color death, a plus the sign of the damned. Marked in pencil it was the signature of death, a unanimous decision was always achieved and the forms were always signed. A comforting hand and kind words led the child to a 'Children's Specialty Department' where the nurses wore shrouds and the doctors bore scythes, lethal injection and starvation was the only medicine they kept in stock.

xxx

"Who is their god, bruder? Who is their god, Preußen? Who is their savior? Their Jesus? Their Moses? Their Mohammed? Their savior? Where is he? Where is their God?"

xxx

He knows of Satan. He knows his name and he knows his face. He knows his age, his hair color, his middle name. He is the savage Christian: a member of the SS and a man whose life is the death of thousands; his name is Christian Wirth. He knows Satan, but where is God?

xxx

"He is there, Deutschland. Being led away to be gassed with three red pluses on his sheet. That is their god brother. Their savior? That, I don't know. Maybe the British bastards or the French hypocrites with their declarations of war? Who knows."

xxx

Helfen, Wehren, Heilen.

Help. Defend. Heal.

This time there were no revolutionaries with scavenged guns and knives or with a sense of duty and justice that could never be truly defeated.

This time there was no engineer willingly to throw his life away for that of the children aboard his train.

This time there was not a thousand five hundred starved children aware of what their fate could be.

This time there was no Schweiz.

This time there was no freedom.

This time, there was only him.

Deliverance is all he could do.

xxx

_"Schlafe, mein Liebes."_

He was six years old.

_"Schlafe zu der Hektik des Flusses, schlafe zum Klang meiner Stimme."_

He was born with mental retardation.

_"Schließ deine Augen."_

He was beautiful when he smiled.

_"Träum von deiner Familie, deiner Mutter, deinem Vater, deiner Familie."_

Pentothol: five grams.

_"Träum von Liebe, von warmen Armen die dich zu Hause begrüßen."_

Pavulon: 100 miligrams.

_"Träum, mein Liebes."_

Potassium Chloride: 100 mill equivalents.

_"Schlafe, mein Liebes, und wenn du aufwachst, mögest du in einer besseren Welt sein."_

_Sleep, my love, and when you wake, may you rise in a better world._

* * *

Translations and Notes:

1."Helfen, Wehren, Heilen."

The motto of the Teutonic Knights, who Gilbert Beilschmidt was the personification of until he became Prussia.

2."Aus Barmherzigkeit töten."

"Mercy killings."

3. Gerhard Kretschmar

The first victim of the Nazi's 'mercy killings', his father sent a letter to Hitler requesting Gerhard to be 'put to sleep' because he was born deformed.

4. Code Aktion T 4

Code name for the Nazi's Euthanasia Program. Name taken from the Reich Chancellery building's address, Tiergarten Strasse 4.

5."Mein Gott. Meine Kinder. Meine schönen, my beautiful, beautiful children.."

My God. My children. My beautiful, beautiful children.

6."Die kleinen Kinder, die es nicht besser wissen, oh Gott."

"The little children that do not know better, oh god. God? There is no god here."

7."Was meinst du Deutschland?"

"What do you mean Germany?"

8. Red is the color death, a plus the sign of the damned.

A doctor under the Reich would place a + mark in red pencil or - mark in blue pencil under the term "treatment" on a special form. A red plus mark meant a decision to kill the child. A blue minus sign meant a decision against killing.

9. 'savage Christian'

The nickname for Christian Wirth, who was the chief of the Kriminalpolizei in Stuttgart before being transferred to head the T-4 program. He was known as a sick, inhumane man who took pleasure in euthanizing thousands.

10. "He is there brother. Being led away to be gassed with three red pluses on his sheet."

When he heard the rhetorical question of 'Where is God?' during the hanging of a child in a concentration camp, Elie Weisel (author of Night and Holocuast survivor) he replied `Where is He? Here He is-He is hanging here on this gallows...' Gilbert is speaking of the same idea.

11. "Schweiz."

Switzerland.

12. "Schlafe, mein Liebes."

Sleep, my love.

13. "Schlafe zu der Hektik des Flusses, schlafe zum Klang meiner Stimme."

Sleep to the rush of your river, sleep to my voice.

14. Schließ deine Augen.

Close your eyes.

15. Träum von deiner Familie, deiner Mutter, deinem Vater, deiner Familie.

Dream of your family, your mother, your father, your family.

16. Träum von Liebe, von warmen Armen die dich zu Hause begrüßen.

Dream of love, of warm arms welcoming you home.

17. Träum, mein Liebes.

Dream, my love.

18. Schlafe, mein Liebes, und wenn du aufwachst, mögest du in einer besseren Welt sein.

Sleep, my love, and when you wake, may you rise in a better world.

19. "Pentothol: five grams", "Pavulon: 100 miligrams", and "Potassium Chloride: 100 mill equivalents".

The ingredients or steps to lethal injection. *I was unable to find the standard for lethal injection or that time (as there was no standard) so I was forced to use the modern day method.

20. Aquila Alis Non

Latin for Eagle with no wings. "Aqulia" is a reference to a constellation in the sky in which two novae occurred, one of which in 1918. The eagle without wings represents the children and people born with disabilities, not letting them 'fly' to their potential. The constellation allusion references to the novae, the sudden shining of a white dwarf, which then returns to normal after a period of time. It is up to you on how to interpret it, but I wrote it as that the light is the euthanized peoples' transitions to 'eine bessere Welt,' a better world.

**A/N2:** I'll make it quick. I wrote this chapter, sent it to my beta, and received a reply in which she said it was "good". After receiving that, I nearly rewrote the whole thing. I hope you enjoyed it, and again is as my normal hope with this story, that it possesses the same power as you readers said the pervious chapters held. Thank you for reading and hopefully enjoying. Reviews would be wonderful and reread many times, so please give me feedback, constructive criticism of just a few words is fine. Thank you.


	5. All God's Angels Wear Halos

**A/N:** After a hiatus, Chapter 5 of Never Again is here.

**Warning:** Heavy Holocaust references and situations. Anti!Hitler and Anti!Nazi Germany. Don't like, don't read. I, in no way, shape or form mean to offend anyone at all, so please do not take this personally or be offended by it.

* * *

Germany desires nothing more at this moment then to sit in that chair.

For he knows, that if he sits in that chair he could fix everything.

He knows, that if he could even just sit in that chair for a minute, he could save all of the children that he has lost.

That he is losing.

For he knows, that who ever sits in that chair must certainly be God.

For if Hitler_Foch_ is_was_ not God, then who is?

He certainly looks_looked_ like God.

With his dark_red_ cap and his pristine_perfect_ uniform.

With his dark-eyed glower_tuantingeyes_ and firm frown_moreofasmirk_ and handlebar_majesticallycurled _mustache.

And his straight arm_bentattheelbowfirmatthebrow_ salute.

To Germany_toFrance_ Hitler_Foch_ looks_looked_ like a God.

But there is no Foch now.

_No Allied God in the chair with a red cap and perfect uniform. No taunting eyes or smirk: no majestically curled mustache nor arm-bent-at-the-elbow-firm-at-the-brow salute._

There is no Weygand or Wemyss.

No Hope, in the French or in the train car.

Atleast not in Petain.

No Marriott, no Erzberger, Oberndorff, Winderfeldt, or Vanslew.

Only a Keitel.

A Keitel, a Goring, a Brauchitsch, Raeder, Hess, and Ribbentrop.

And a Hitler.

There's still a France, though.

There's still a Germany.

There's still humiliation, vindictiveness, bigotry, condensation, and there's still fight.

There may be no Hope, but there is still fight in France.

It is the triumph of Germany for believing in it, and the greatest flaw in Hitler for denying it.

Hitler denies it again and again, he ignores it and doubts it and tosses it aside.

And all France can do is sit and listen, and bear it all.

They say so many, many words, so many pompous lies and slick evasions- words that bind and words that break.

Words are the world's greatest weapons, pen and ink deadlier than a gun and bullets.

The Nazis seem to never run out of guns and bullets, nor pen and ink.

One could say that the Nazi War Machine runs simply on gallotannic acid and lead.

But when armed with the mind of a Malicious Dwarf and the lips of the Fuhrer- there is no need for guns and bullets to exact revenge.

All you need is a pen and paper.

But France knows this. He knows this just as _he knew Foch_, just as _he knew Hope_.

_France has danced with Revenge before, twirling her dark personage round and round, from age to age, from nation to next, passing the heated fury of her revenge from skies and seas. _

_It was 1919 when he rested his head once again on her bosom, breathing in her sweet smell of sex and sour wine._

"_By a date which must not be later than March 31, 1920, the German Army must not comprise more than seven divisions of infantry and three divisions of cavalry…"_

_Her flesh was soft to the touch and her sweat slick to the feel, pungent and inviting it dizzied his mind and muddled his thoughts, giddy he was in the hands of Revenge._

"_[T]he Army of the States constituting Germany must not exceed one hundred thousand men, including officers and establishments of depots…"_

_Her eyes gunpowder and her lips his sullied fields of red, her skin the tainted snow of the Alps and her hair the darkest sky before dawn._

"…_armed forces of Germany must not include any military or naval air forces…No dirigible shall be kept."_

_He danced with her many a time in that small room: deux, quatre, une, neuf._

"…_Germany undertakes to deliver to France seven million tons of coal per year for ten years… Germany shall pay in such installments and in such manner (whether in gold, commodities, ships, securities or otherwise) as the Reparation Commission may fix, during 1919, 1920 and the first four months of 1921, the equivalent of 20,000,000,000 gold marks…"_

_Francis that night never dreamt that the hands of any could buy a man her love. _

He dreamt of it many another night though.

He dreamt of her supple flesh being caressed by the hands of another, lips whispering meaningless words of devotion in her ear as they made their pact.

He dreamt of it every night for 22 years.

And now he need not dream of it anymore.

For who dreams a dream of reality, when one can simply open his eyes and see which he has seen behind them?

For now it is Germany who twirls Revenge around and around: zwei, vier, ein, neun.

But humiliation is something France can live with.

France can withstand Hitler's perfectly timed departure and the flawless mirror of Foch's triumph to form the Third Reich's.

He can stand strong through Hitler's words, Goring's sneers, Brauchitsch's smirks, Raeder's scorn, Hess' derides, and Ribbentrop's mockery.

But not through Keitel's speeches.

The unjust murder of his children, is something he will never stand for.

In the end, all nations really are the same.

They all get it.

That feeling.

It's a sickening feeling, really.

Like you've just swallowed your last bite of food, and it just won't stay down.

Like you're surrounded by air but you can't breathe.

Like the sky is a different color and you can't figure out why, and you just want it to be blue and normal damn it because you just want normalcy and peace.

Like you're stuck in a very, very dark room with no light and no way to get out and the walls just keep on creeping, closer, and closer.

It's a sickening feeling; knowing your children are condemned to die.

He doesn't cry though, he doesn't whimper, shake or quiver.

He stands perfectly still, azure eyes dark and jaw still.

His hands are clasped behind his back, which is wonderfully straight.

His hair is brushed to curled perfection, glowing faintly in the sunlight.

He is a perfect picture of calm, really.

You would almost assume that he wants this treaty; that he wants to be taken over and be the perfect gleaming jewel of an empire that breaks him down and cuts him to their ideal size.

But Germany doesn't assume, he never assumes anything anymore.

Germany sees just however ravaged France is.

His eyes are lined with a thin rash of angry red; tear tracks carved into his skin.

He jaw is tensed and ready to strike, unnoticeable tremors shake in his shoulders; the hair on his neck stands on end.

His fingernails are stained red; behind his back his nails dig deeper and deeper into his already shredded palms.

His hair is as dark as this black forest, the roots shining darker than the rest; gleaming scarlet in the dark rays of light, from nails clutching sharply at his head.

But his gaze is darker still.

France is a wreck of being and he is only bound to worsen.

And he knows it.

For deep in his stomach he feels a sickening feeling; one like bile rising in his throat, or suffocation in room full of air, it's like whole wide world is crashing down upon him but he can't move in this small, small room his.

But he doesn't assume that this feeling will stay, that it have to stay, that there is nothing he can do about it.

No, France does not assume anything, and he knows he never will again when dark eyes meet blue and France finally understands that he is not the only one suffocating in this hell of a train car.

* * *

**Notes:**

1. Overall note:

-In 1918, the Germans surrendered to the Allied forces and the treaty to end WW1 was signed in the Compiègne Forest. General Foch was the commanding officer of the Allied forces.

-In 1940, the French surrendered to the German forces and the treaty to end aggression between the two countries was signed in the Compiègne Forest. Hitler was the commanding officer of the German forces.

2. "For he knows, that who ever sits in that chair must certainly be God. / For if Hitler_Foch_ is_was_ not God, then who is?"

Foch sat in one particular chair during the 1918 Treaty affair. Hitler sat in that exact same chair during the 1940 surrender of the French.

3. "No Hope, in the French or in the train car... No Marriott, no Erzberger, Oberndorff, Winderfeldt, or Vanslew."

The participants in the 1918 treaty.

4. "A Keitel, a Goring, a Brauchitsch, Raeder, Hess, and Ribbentrop."

The German participants in the 1940 treaty.

5. "...there is still fight in France."

Despite Petain's (the leader of France at the time) surrender, many French people wished to resist, and did.

6. "...gallotannic acid..."

Gallotannic acid was the main ingredient in ink during the times.

7. "...Malicious Dwarf..."

One of the many nicknames for Joseph Goebbels, the Minister of Propaganda.

8. "_By a date which must not be later than March 31, 1920, the German Army must not comprise more than seven divisions of infantry and three divisions of cavalry…" "__[T]he Army of the States constituting Germany must not exceed one hundred thousand men, including officers and establishments of depots…" "…__armed forces of Germany must not include any military or naval air forces…No dirigible shall be kept.""…__Germany undertakes to deliver to France seven million tons of coal per year for ten years… Germany shall pay in such installments and in such manner (whether in gold, commodities, ships, securities or otherwise) as the Reparation Commission may fix, during 1919, 1920 and the first four months of 1921, the equivalent of 20,000,000,000 gold marks…"_

Excerpts form the Treaty of Versailles; the 1918 Armistice between France and Germany was the precursor to this treaty that crushed Germany.

9. "...deux, quatre, une, neuf."

Two, four, one, nine. The number of the train carriage in which the 1918 Armistice, and the later the 1940 Armistice, was held.

10. "...zwei, vier, ein, neun."

Two, four, one, nine. Again, the number of the train carriage.

11. "...this black forest..."

The Compiègne Forest, in which the two treaties were signed.

12. "All God's Angels Wear Halos"

As per norm, there are many different ways to interpret this title. I will explain the main theme that goes for all of them: it is an old weather legend that when there appears to be a circle around the moon, then there will be a storm the next day. Scientifically, it has been proven that the ring is actually a sign of a low pressure system moving into the area, meaning bad weather. This title is a prediction of the oncoming storm for France, because his government has signed this treaty. Another interpretation of this title would be the "God" theme that I have written into this chapter. If the "God" you are thinking of is Hitler, the angels would be Hitler's Nazis, or even his Aryan race, and the halos being in a sarcastic/ironic/POV sense or in the sense of the oncoming storm. Another "God", would be Germany. This interpretation looks back at the last chapter, meaning that his "angels" are his children- and the halos are meant in a literal sense of death and purity.

**A/N2:** First and foremost, I would like to greatly apologize for my unexpected hiatus. I would also like to apologize to all of my reviewers that I did not reply to- I love hearing from you and it makes me extremely happy to know that you are enjoying (lacking a better way to put it) this story. I will try to reply to you all that I missed now, so I apologize for the rather late replies some of you will be receiving. That last chapter was... extremely difficult on me, so I thought an emotional break might help my writer's block a bit. I just recently, since I am on summer vacation, visited the Holocaust museum in Washington, D.C. and was awed by both the horrors and miracles performed during the Holocaust. There I wrote a chapter for this, when you will be seeing it, I can't tell you. I highly recommend that museum to all of you who have an interest, again lack of a better word, in the Holocaust, it is breathtaking. This chapter was hard, not only because of the huge range of emotions, but the amount of research I had to do to write this. This event of the 1940 Armistice was insane on my writer...ness? It had so many possibilities that I was just completely overwhelmed. Hopefully, this chapter did not come out too absolutely horrible and some of you were able to enjoy it. It is similar to the last chapter in composition, it was formed from many attempts at writing the chapter: that's why sometimes (or all the time, it seems to me) the chapter feels awkward or inconsistent. Oh dear goodness, I have rambled. I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter in your own particular way and that you all learn from this story. I really do appreciate reviews, and will reply to them, for they help me better understand how to write such an odd story as this. Thank you so much for your time.


	6. Unseen but not Unfelt

**A/N:** This chapter has little to do with the overall plot, and has no direct time at which it takes places, it is just another glimpse at Germany's psyche as the Holocaust progresses.

**Warning:** Heavy Holocaust references and situations. Anti!Hitler and Anti!Nazi Germany. Don't like, don't read. I, in no way, shape or form mean to offend anyone at all, so please do not take this personally or be offended by it.

* * *

They are all gray.

A dull, banal, unassuming color that made one's eyes swim to look at for too long and sets up a nice ache behind your eyes.

They seemed to be all about the same size too, after sorting the hundredth and thirty-seventh.

Same color, same size, same brand, same make.

_Dasselbe, dasselbe, dasselbe._

Same smell too.

Like leather, so overpowering in that dusty, muggy hot room that it made you dizzy when you inhaled, the scent whirling about you.

(They don't make them quite like that anymore, do they now? _Jetzt nicht mehr._)

Overpowering you.

A scent of leather, and blood, and dust, and dirt, and fear, and loneliness.

_Ja, ziemlich viel Einsamkeit unter diesen Schuhen._

But, but- there's a white one now.

And look! That one has a speck of pink about it, the other one a fine black bow with lace about its edges, a green one and brown with a nice lengthy heel and another one- a gentlemen's shoe! Shoes for everything and anything: school, working, parties, family dinners, weddings and funerals.

_Viele, viele Beerdigungen._

But they are all gray now.

_Dasselbe, dasselbe, dasselbe._

(They'd like you to think that, wouldn't they? That you are all the same; _alles nur Schafe zur Schlachtbank geführt._)

Sometimes, but only sometimes when the sun's hanging long and that heady scent of leather (_Schmutz, Blut, Staub, Alter, Verfall, Tod._) has really gotten to him, does he let himself go.

Does he picture the smooth, delicate heel that once slid slick like honey into that creamy heeled shoe, with a cinnamon curled bow and yellow lining.

Oh, how she danced-

He can see it now; her twirling about like ball in roulette, spinning, spinning, spinning without a care in the world to stop her or a mind half spent on the days of tomorrow and her future ahead. Her favorite dish was Lecsó made by her mother and her mother before her, he was sure- and her favorite drink was Pharisäer, slick, bitter and sweet at the same time.

Ah, so that shoe must have been her kid sister's! Stubby little things, white with a little pink bow. Always bugging her sister about, with thick brown curls and dancing eyes, oh, how she must have been green with envy when her sister was let out to go dancing with her beau, while she had to stay at home and work on her D'var Torah like a good girl while her doting father watched on over her, so proud of his beautiful girls.

What fine shoes he wore too! Dark leather, with sturdy soles for work and walking, how that man knew so well about people and the world they live in, counting that every part of himself, from his dark hair that he shared with his eldest to his sharply trimmed beard to his pressed shirt against his slightly, he would plead, round stomach, made an impression from the first glance.

(But to them it doesn't really matter what you wear, does it? Certainly what you look like, but really, it came down to the thick blood coursing through your veins. _Nicht, dass man nichts dagegen tun, oder?_)

Some times all three would dance together, laughing and stumbling about in their mockery, their mother no longer with them from the whispering flu that blew by, but still standing, still breathing, still taking in the simple joy of tripping over one's carpet in an attempt at one of those crazy American dance moves.

(But for how long?)

_Tanzen_, spinning, _lachen_, smiling, _auslösung_, falling, falling, falling.

(Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posie. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!)

They are all gray, now.

They all smell of leather, now.

They are gone, now.

(But not really, that's just what they want you to think.)

No more dancing, laughing, practicing for adulthood, or smiling, now.

Just sorting, now.

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

There was only one shoe with edges of green and a sole of gold.

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

Only one shoe with silver plated tassels and twirled MC on the flat of it.

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

Only one thick boot, made for wearing through thick snow and deep slush.

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

_Männer Schuh._

_Graue Tonne._

_Frauen Schuh._

_Schwarz Tonne._

Only one tiny boot, fit for a foot as long a daisy's petal and as soft as a chick's down.

As leather caresses the foot of the wearer, an imprint is there to last forever, no matter the fate of the wearer.

We wear them, and they wear us.

There are no duplicates.

There are no pairs.

He will find no copies in his ever-growing mountain of remnants of the dead and dying.

Germany will find no shoe the same as any other.

Nor will any nation or any man.

_Linke, Rechte._

But no duplicates.

There are no duplicates, there are no copies, no "same" in a holocaust.

Nor will there ever be.

* * *

Wir sind die Schuhe. Wir sind die letzten Zeugen

_We are the shoes. We are the last witnesses_

Wir sind die Schuhe von Enkeln und Großeltern

_We are the shoes of grandchildren and grandparents_

Von Prag nach Paris und Amsterdam

_From Prague to Paris and Amsterdam_

Denn wir sind aus Leder

_Because we are made of leather_

Und zwar nicht aus Fleisch und Blut

_And not of flesh and blood_

Jeder von uns vermied das Höllenfeuer.

_Each of us avoided the hellfire._

- Von Moses Schulstein, Überlebender des Holocuast.

* * *

**Notes/Translations:**

**1. "Dasselbe, dasselbe, dasselbe."**

Same, same, same.

**2. " Jetzt nicht mehr."**

Not anymore.

**3. "Ja, ziemlich viel Einsamkeit unter diesen Schuhen."**

Yes, quite a lot of loneliness among these shoes.

**4. "Viele, viele Beerdigungen."**

Many, many funerals.

**5. "alles nur Schafe zur Schlachtbank geführt."**

all just sheep led to slaughter.

**6. "Schmutz, Blut, Staub, Alter, Verfall, Tod."**

Dirt, blood, dust, age, decay, death.

**7. "Lecsó"**

A mixed vegetable stew, a Hungarian Ratatouille.

**8. "Pharisäer"**

A German drink that is half coffee half rum with whipped creme, created in the late 1800s.

**9. "D'var Torah"**

A part of a Bat Mitzva (a coming of age ceremony for a Jewish girl.)

**10."Nicht, dass man nichts dagegen tun, oder?"**

Not that you could do anything about that, could you?

**11. "Tanzen, spinning, lachen, smiling, auslösung, falling, falling, falling."**

Dancing, spinning, laughing, smiling, tripping, falling, falling, falling.

**13. "Frauen Schuh. Schwarz Tonne. Männer Schuh. Graue Tonne."**

Women's shoe. Gray bin. Men's shoe. Back bin.

**14."He will find no pairs in his ever-growing mountain of remnants of the dead and dying."**

Reference to Moses Schulstein's poem in which he describes the pile of shoes of Holocaust victims as a mountain.

**15. Linke, Rechte.**

Lefts, rights.

**15. "Wir sind die Schuhe... Von Moses Schulstein, Überlebender des Holocuast. "**

Moses Schulstein was a Yiddish poet. This poem appears on the wall above the room of shoes in the Washington, DC Holocaust Museum.

**16. Unseen but not Unfelt**

Dark Matter is invisible, and is the addition to gravity that holds the universe together at the seams. Seams are made of tiny thousands upon thousands upon thousands of tiny little stitches, each made their own. If you pull out the stitches, the universe falls to pieces, and what are we left with? If you pluck out lives by the thousands, ripping out stitches and carving out seams, you can expect nothing more than the world to crash and burn.

**A/N2: **This little thing was written in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. in the Shoe Room, a room entirely filled with shoes of Holocaust victims. I stood in the middle of that room for well over an hour, scribbling this down and inhaling that dizzying scent of leather. While I was there, I was approached by one of the security guards, and after commenting on how diligent I was, she said this: "I love that smell, the smell of leather. They don't make shoes like that anymore- the leather we have now is supple, and you fit right into it. Back then, they were stiff and well made. I mean, you can look at the heels and see all of the fine stitching. But y'know what gets me? Little shoes like those. Little ones, for a toddler or maybe a big baby. A baby or a little kid- the purest things you could get on this earth. They didn't do anything wrong." After finishing her moving words, she was called away and as she left, I called a quick thank you. She shrugged and said 'you're welcome' as if she said such things everyday. I hope so hard that she does, because everyone needs to hear what she says. I thought that I would never see her again, but of course, a little over 5 minutes later, as I entered the remembrance hall, where the eternal flame flickers, I see her. She smiles at me and says: "You don't have to write now, you can take pictures." I told her that I didn't have a camera. She chuckled.

"It smells like fire now. Not like burning flesh or of burning bone. No dying villages or destruction. It just smells like fire. Like smoke and wax, and faintly of something floral. Lavender, maybe. A bit of stone too. Reminds me of home, really. Like meals on the deck; like food, family and happiness. It smells like home." What I wrote in response to the flickering candles in the Remembrance Hall.


End file.
